


This is the Way the World Ends

by potatoesanddreams



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cold War, Gen, Nuclear Warfare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23784139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatoesanddreams/pseuds/potatoesanddreams
Summary: "This is the way the world endsThis is the way the world endsThis is the way the world endsNot with a bang but a whimper."- T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"What could have happened, and what did.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	This is the Way the World Ends

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for Nic!
> 
> So this is... a thing.
> 
> Content note: description of the effect of a nuclear explosion. Not graphic; description is of the explosion's effect on objects, not people.

Combeferre is lying crossways on Joly’s bed. He is reading from a textbook so thick it is almost a cube, resting it on his chest for support. Joly is certain it is going to damage his respiratory system, but Combeferre will not listen. He says that if he tries to get more comfortable he will fall asleep, and then he will fail his exam. Joly says that Combeferre couldn’t fail his exam if he tried, but Combeferre will not listen to that either. He tips the book back so that he can turn the page.

This is the way the world ends.

Enjolras is curled up like a cat on Joly’s swivel chair, holding _Measure for Measure_ in one hand and his left foot absentmindedly in the other. He is meant to read through Act III; if he continues interrupting himself to tell the others what is happening in the play, he’s going to be reading until he leaves for class in the morning. This is the way the world ends. Enjolras fiddles with the fabric of his sock, and goes on reading.

What could have happened then:

a light, coming from nowhere, concealing everything; a sound like the world being torn in two. Enjolras leaps awkwardly from his seat, snatching at the air, trying to find the cord that controls the blinds. Joly screams. Combeferre loses hold of his book; it falls backwards onto his diaphragm and knocks the breath out of him. In another moment, none of this will have mattered at all.

There is no light but the afternoon sun through the window. Leaning against the head of his bed, Joly squints bemusedly at the knitting in his hands. Enjolras hisses at _Measure for Measure_ , and throws his weight to one side, spinning his chair until he is more or less facing Joly and Combeferre. He has more commentary. Angelo is no angel; but then, Enjolras had realized that by the second page of Scene I.

Again.

Enjolras and Jehan have raised their voices enough that much of the cafeteria is beginning to stare. They differ on Shakespeare. Jehan says that _Measure for Measure_ is radical in its denouncement of sexism in early modern England, and that the play’s conclusion is a meditation on the inadequacy of retributive justice, not a minimization of Angelo’s monstrous behavior. Enjolras counters that the Duke is deeply inadequate as a moral center for the play, and yet that is the role Shakespeare gives him; the privileging of his voice over Isabella’s is only one symptom of the play’s reinforcement of patriarchal norms.

Neither Enjolras nor Jehan is angry, but they are growing so enthusiastic that Combeferre is beginning to think it might be best for their group to move elsewhere. People are trying to eat.

What could have been:

at that moment (not with a bang but a whimper) Combeferre’s train of thought is cut off by the blare of sirens. The cafeteria leaps to its feet. There is policy for this, but not everyone seems to remember it. There is milling, confusion. Frightened voices are raised. But the chaos is controlled; the crowd will not lose itself to panic. There have been unannounced drills before – perhaps this is another.

“English building,” says Enjolras, though Combeferre and Jehan remember. They stand up to join the crowd. Enough students seem to know where to go that the rest of the crowd is drawn after them, and the three friends are borne along, caught in the crowd’s swirling center. There is a bottleneck at the doors, and a few people start shoving; Combeferre turns and gives them one of his Stares, and they are quelled. They step out of the cafeteria into the afternoon sunlight, and are swept with the crowd across the green. Other crowds stream from other buildings to join with theirs, and Enjolras strains his neck to see over the heads of the people around him, but he catches no glimpse of the other Amis.

The sirens are still blaring, louder somehow in the open air, blending with the chatter of the crowd so that sometimes they are not heard so much as felt. This is the way the world ends. The sound of the sirens, bright and sour, buzzes in Jehan’s bones; wincing, he sticks his fingers in his ears.

Black and yellow, harshly reflective: the sign for a shelter. They bottleneck again at the door to the English building (this is the way the world ends), but this time the crowd narrows itself spontaneously to a winding line, as orderly as anyone could expect given the terror of the moment. They file down into the basement, then the sub-basement. It is dusty here, and the ceiling is not finished; they can see pipes running through the gloom above their heads. Here is another black-and-yellow sign. People are still coming down the stairs – so slowly – as quickly as they can – so terribly slowly.

And then the world is broken open, and it is not the light but the heat that rushes on them, flooding through the halls and stairwells; the pipes above their heads scream for an instant before they burst into clouds of bronze shards and gray vapor, and in another instant the scalding steam and the boiling air will not matter to anyone at all.

“Isabella is a skilled philosopher and rhetorician!” says Jehan.

“Yes, but no one listens to her!”

“But that’s exactly the _point…_ ”

The cafeteria is a little chilly. Combeferre retrieves his jacket from the back of his chair and drapes it over his shoulders. When he has finished his sandwich, he decides, he’ll suggest they move to one of the dorms.

Again?

As he reaches for the red paint, Bahorel’s sleeve trails through the black. He hisses, lifting his arm to look at the damage. “This is cashmere.”

“You’re so materialistic,” says Grantaire, deadpan. Bahorel makes as if to throw the paintbrush at him, and Grantaire raises his hands in exaggerated alarm. “Don’t! I surrender! Your sweater is nice!”

“You should run up to your room and change,” says Courfeyrac, tracing the line of a huge capital S in green. “If you hand-wash that right now, maybe it won’t stain.”

“All right,” says Bahorel, and rises, leaving his paintbrush on the newspaper they have spread out over the floor. “Watch my things.”

When Bahorel has gone around the corner and out of sight, Bossuet grimaces. “I was gonna make a joke about taking his stuff, but I couldn’t think of one in time.”

“It was a good opportunity,” Grantaire says sympathetically.

They are sprawled in various states of slovenliness on the floor of the common room, painting protest signs; and it is taking a great deal longer than any of them had expected it to. The paint is tacky and difficult to spread. Two completed signs have already been ruined in entirely separate disasters, one involving the cup of water they had been using to clean the brushes, the other involving Grantaire not watching where he was putting his feet. Enjolras keeps getting distracted by the contents of the newspapers protecting the floor. “Have you seen this?” he says now. “McCarthy – ”

“We’ve seen it,” Combeferre assures him.

What might have been –

but no. We will speak of what is.

Enjolras is gesticulating about Senator McCarthy, and Courfeyrac is listening with his chin in his hands, elbows resting on his sign. Combeferre pokes him, and he startles, nearly smearing green paint onto his shirtsleeve; he glares at Combeferre, not seriously, and pokes him back. Combeferre only shrugs mildly and returns to his own work. “Stop Atom Tests” is penciled across the cardboard in neat block letters, and Combeferre is nearly finished filling in “Atom” bright red.

The pipes hum. A group of students come in laughing, and pass the group on the common room floor without interest; those who live here are used to the Amis’ activities. Their footsteps fade; the clock in the corner ticks on. Realizing a sneeze is building, Joly manages to fish his handkerchief out of his pocket in the nick of time. Somewhere upstairs, Bahorel is scrubbing injudiciously hard at the stain in his cashmere sweater.

It is only a week or so until the march. Jehan’s latest project is a protest song.

This is the way the world ends: not in their silence.

This is the way the world ends: not yet. Not yet. Not yet.


End file.
